A Treaty Between Friends
by Baby Girl's a Queen
Summary: A series of 'conversations' between Neal and Cleon, during Keladry and Cleon's courtship. You don't think Kel's friends, so intent on protecting her honour, were happy with Cleon stepping into the picture, do you?
1. The Blood Pact

A Treaty Between Friends

A conversation between Cleon and Neal after Neal realises Cleon is after Kel.

Cleon's POV:

His gaze made me squirm. Clear green eyes that looked into my very soul and seemed to say, 'I know exactly what you want. I know what it does to you when she smiles at you, when those bright, strong eyes look straight into yours and linger for a sweet innocent moment. And I don't like it.'

The cruel threat in Neal's smirk sends a cold sweat down my spine, and Kel's suspicious glance between us causes my stomach to churn like fresh butter. I am suddenly sorry I ever teased Neal for his imaginary flings with unattainable beauties. But none of Neal's ladyloves had bands of squires sworn to protect them, he never knew their father or slept in their house, he was never squire to their brother.

I don't know how I engaged in the conversation through dinner. Perhaps I didn't – perhaps I sat silently as my eyes flicked restlessly between Kel, Neal and my plate, not noticing that my friends were muttering something about soothing drinks – at any rate, I remember nothing of it. I watched as Kel left the hall, it's not a sin to look, knowing my reprieve was up.

The sarcastic drawl never came. Instead, a whisper in my ear as he cleared his plate, "If you were not a brother to me…"

I know the end of that sentence. I've been the end of that sentence: a difference of opinion settled in the jousting lanes, at the tip of a sword and, more often than not, a romp in the dust that leaves the philandering fool 'out of service' for a while. And perhaps I enjoy it a little too much, past the adrenaline of a good fight, possessiveness making my punches fall harder and jealousy whispering dirty tricks to my elbows and knees. Because we swore to protect her.

I lie in my bed at night as images flash through my brain – the most innocuous mixed amongst the typical perverted boy's fantasies: holding her hand, kissing her, talking about anything other than the latest battle, bringing my hands up along her pale, naked ribs to cup her small breasts… I will admit that as the hour gets later, fantasies involving clothes become fewer. There was, after all, a perfectly practical reason Wyldon forbid us boys from visiting her, alone in her rooms.

But always, I was drawn back to the pact I sealed with blood. I pact I had thought nothing of as Neal finalised the wording and I sliced myself with the Ravenswood Armoury knife that had been passed around the room. I was more concerned with the quality of the blade than what I was signing! Neal could have had us all sign away our inheritance and every penny we ever earned when he brought out that knife, and I feel certain I would have sold my own mother if he had let me hold his brother's broadsword, propped in the corner.

"I do swear by the light of Mithros that I will show Keladry of Mindelin the proper respect due to a page, a squire, a knight and a lady. I will not slander her name or blot reputation by words or deeds. I will honour her with purity."

The words were simple, child-like, but they did not matter. In a blood pact such as this it was the meaning each individual took from the words, the ceremony, than the words themselves. There could be no finding loopholes in your conscience and soul. So we had signed: Merric first (because he had suggested it after that first incident of protecting Kel's honour), then Neal (confidently, knowing he would never desert Kel), the knife passed from hand to hand, slicing shallow, stinging cuts into thighs, biceps, dripping and smearing the blood into the page. Faleron was the only one to pause, but then, Garvey would never have conceived that particular insult without witnessing Faleron's obvious crush. Still, we all thought it best he sign the paper.

Who was I to know that the twelve year old Yamani Lump would grow into a tall, glorious woman?

We stood and watched the blood cake and dry, all of our blood, mixed together, soaking the best velum Neal could find. When it is almost dry, but not cracking, Neal steps forward with a sharp quill. Scratches his name out so it appears, bright and creamy, on a deep maroon background. We all follow, a list of eight neat names.

My understanding of those few short sentences at the tender age of fourteen now spelt out a very simple set of rules. Look, don't touch. Think, don't act. And don't let on to the castle gossips. Still, sometimes I am resentful, Neal had been sixteen, and by all accounts **experienced**. He should have stopped us.

My sleep was fitful. Filled with good dreams and bad.

I curse incoherently when I wake to find Neal sitting on my bed, swearing blindly until I remember the non-events of last night. And then I realise that by some miracle Neal was up before me, before the sun!

"Get dressed. We're going to the practice fields." This was certainly not Neal. Neal, did not wake up in the dark, did not appear on other boys beds and never suggested 'practice courts' so cheerfully. The whole situation was dangerous.

I fumbled with the buttons of my trousers and the laces of my shirt. Pulled on my boots, unlaced. Stood considering my swords, chose the live blade. Neal can act like this is routine all he likes, but I think I will carry a live weapon.

"Put that down, you clod! We're going to have a few practice rounds, not slice each other to pieces. Gods. Do you always think with your beef?" Now the sarcasm sinks back in. And I blush. The obvious heat in my cheeks creeping out to my ears, the curse of all red heads. Yes, I had taken this to be a competition, determining whether I would face that masked axeman that was my friends, but it was now clear Neal had found the compassion to give me a fair trial. Well, a trial at any rate.

We have been through two rounds (I have won two rounds) before Neal begins. And here are the bouts he will win. He started with an observation.

"I noticed you have forgotten our pact."

"Forgotten it? That error hems me in, every time I go to compliment her, tell anyone how I feel, smile at her!" My intensity was lost, or perhaps increased, by my panting as I swept my sword in a butterfly movement, doubling back just as my sword moved back into Neal's field of view and snaking the dull blade down the side of his neck to rest at the base of his neck.

"That pact only stops you doing what you decided would be dishonourable when your mind was not so clouded by lust. We all drew our lines, the pack only made them walls, and they are only as strong as your honour." Neal managed to say all this at the point of a blade. "Again."

"So it is dishonourable for me to fall for a lady?" Sweat was working its way into my eyes so I shook my head as I spoke, confident enough that Neal would not best me in that short lapse. "You knew then, Neal. Knew that any one of us could fall for her and be ripped apart by that pledge we were making. We were just silly little boys."

"You knew that then! Faleron already did feel that way about her, and you didn't think it so wrong to force his hand." Neal was making ground now, on the offensive, his fitness never flagged and his sudden anger pushed him forward. "You knew then that what you want would taint her reputation, that she would have been thrown out of page training." Neal made the final cut then, swept fast across my legs with the flat of his sword then completed a tight loop and a lunge to ram my chest.

I stepped back. "What did you decide? What meaning did you gather from those few short words?"

"You're right, I was older. I understood. I took advantage. She had come back from summer holidays looking more like a girl than a lump, and she didn't even realise it. I'd known as soon as I saw her that year that they would start making comments, putting her in bed with half the palace. Do you know what I'm saying? I knew, I noticed." He thumped his chest with the hilt of his sword, but it was not for effect, not a players gesture – he would have bruises there tomorrow.

"And I was sixteen. My perverted little mind wanted everything you want right now: courting, kisses and not having to share her with the rabble. She was twelve. So I promised she would be my little sister and my best friend, and never any more. Whether in fifty years or in my imagination. Now my blood binds me to it."

"I – I'm sorry?" I stumbled over my words, shocked at this revelation. It felt like my eyes weren't quite focussing, my ears were fuzzy, my hands were wrapped in thick mittens and my nose was stuffy. Every sense was betraying me, the information I was getting was irreconcilable to what I knew, that the earth was flat, the Gods ruled over us, and that Neal had never liked Kel.

"It doesn't matter anymore. It was a long time ago." Neal turned away from the issue and I was shocked to find I could quite easily ignore it too while falling into the silent rhythms of the dance: block, parry, arc, sweep, parry, thrust. I won the next bout.

As I returned to my rooms, it returned. Was this always in the room with him, when he spoke with Kel, whenever she was mentioned, whenever a lady caught his eye? He could have had her, they would have been sweethearts half an hour before Wyldon sent Kel away. I am not fool enough to think otherwise.

Neal watched me over the next few days, and he watched Kel. Our eyes would meet looking at her, though his were always guarded now. He had never expected to be on the back foot while protecting Kel. He could win this – watch me suffer and laugh at the circular fairness of life – watch a friend suffer.

It was the first night of Midwinter when he approached me in the Great Hall, "Come on, I'm giving you an out." He turned and walked off, leaving his squire duties to Merric. I quickly did the same, confused but drawn in: an out from what? Serving wine? Walking away was not 'an out'.

He kept his silence as we wove through the rat's warren of the palace to his rooms, connected to those of Lady Alannah. It was not until he opened his desk and began rummaging through pieces of parchment and rolled velum that I realised what I could be released from.

"But you can't. There isn't an out, I swore it in blood in the eyes of Mithros." Neal ignored me, instead unrolling and re-rolling scrolls, and I lost patience, "By the Gods, how many blood pacts have you made?"

He found it then, unrolling the scroll still stained and warped with all our blood, now dark and leaching into our names, with it two sketches of Kel riding her gelding and a poem. Neal indicated them with a sharp silver knife, "Faleron's drawing's are good aren't they? My poetry, not so much."

Neal's hand, darting out to grab my wrist so he could cut my hand – a clean slice, parting the skin to reveal firm, pink lines of muscle, already hidden now as the red blood pools – and smear it over my name. I swore. Loud. It wasn't a transformation, no frog to prince metamorphosis, it was only slight and it felt more like something was slightly off, like walking in new shoes: a little uncomfortable and not what I'm used to, but no longer too small.

"Did you feel that last time? That change?" My question was hurried, but not yet frantic, I was raised to trust the healers.

"Yes, but my experience, and Faleron's, was probably different. Like getting put into a cage, a nice cage I didn't want to leave, but entrapment none the less." Neal paused for a moment as he looked me up and down. "I expect you did not because what you were saying was already what you believed to be true. At any rate, magic no longer controls you but I still expect a certain level of respectability. Now out. Before too many notice that Merric is the only squire serving wine."


	2. Protective

"There is an art, or rather a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss." ~ Douglas Adams, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

The Event

The herald raised the flag and two horses charged down the lanes, lifting clouds of dust into the first rows of spectators, who were expectantly holding their breath and waiting for the clash. They were not disappointed, for the group of knights sitting in the centre seats could distinguish the sound of lances breaking even if the dust stung their eyes and made it difficult to make out what occurred in the jousting lanes. Cleon pretended that the dust the horses kicked up was the reason his eyes had closed at the fatal moment, and only opened as the cheers rang out, the dust cleared and the participants returned to the start of their respective lanes. However, he failed to hide the flinch that convulsed through him when the lances slammed into the shields.

"She did well, in case you were wondering," Neal remarked. He paused to gauge the younger boy's reaction before adding, "She blocked well, and she made a good hit; she'll be fine."

Cleon rubbed his face harshly, chaffing his cheeks, and tugged at his bright red curls, making them stick up in every direction, before leaning forward on the railing and propping his head on his clasped hands. He tried desperately to look casual, cool, and detached from the organised violence he was supposed to be calmly observing.

The dust stung his eyes again as the hoses charged down the lanes, but Cleon kept his eyes open this time, and watched the hits. This time only Tristan of Aneislis' lance snapped, breaking clean off about a third the way down from the handle. He watched as Kel rode back to the start, shaking out her shield arm and rolling her shoulders.

"Tristan's good." Cleon tried to keep his comment as empty as possible, using an emotionless tone the healer recognized all too well.

"Our Kel's still in this. She hasn't come off, and she can still win

This, but if you keep cringing we may need to have a talk after all this."

Neal was trying to be supportive at the moment. He would leave his scathing remarks for later.

Cleon managed to watch the final run, flinching a third time as the lances struck home. The clash echoed about the arena, but neither party flew from the saddle. He cheered with his friends as Kel was awarded the win, but his heart wasn't in it, and Neal was alert enough to detect this.

"Go congratulate Kel," he said. "Have fun, but we'll be having that

chat tonight."

Marks of a Warrior

Large hands tugged clumsily at shirt lacings, unaccustomed to removing men's tunics and shirts. Unaccustomed to untying another's laces. Swift kisses rained upon a strong, tanned neck, aiming to distract from his clumsy inexperience. Success! Cleon ran his hands over taught pale flesh, only now noticing his own tunic and shirt had been disgarded. His muscles tensed, from arousal or nerves neither knew, as Kel ran her hands over his bare stomach. Cleon ran his hands up to her shoulders, pulling her closer for another nervous kiss, his fingers itched to run under her breastband but, slowing slightly, he ran them down Kel's back to her waist, enjoying the feel of his bare skin against hers.

Kel hissed in pain, the slightest sound.

Cleon had forgotten the bruises. He had seen them before when they reached this awkwardly anxious stage of their passion – sometimes worse than others, blues and browns were common, but on worse bruises you could see the angry reds, sickly yellows and painful greens, spreading every colour of the rainbow before fading to painless brown marks – and remembered the sunrises that would often cover her eyes as a page. They always made him halt. Step back and appraise the hurts that covered his Queen of Squires, making her blush, cover herself in embarrassment as their half clothed situation caught up with her.

The hazy dream of lust had been broken and their inhibitions flowed quickly through the cracks, reminding them they were not lovers but teenagers caught further than they were ready to go. Cleon, who would laugh brazenly at lewd remarks and not hesitate to add his own while out with his friends, blushed cherry red when presented with so much bare flesh. (But his friends never need know that he was quite so innocent). Nevertheless he looked on.

The bruises today weren't too bad, by comparison, but he had squeezed at her hip tightly where it looked like she had been smacked with the broad side of a sword. It was not something Kel would have thought to heal with bruise balm but it had hurt when Cleon, in his amateur fervour, had roughly palmed her hip. Kel grabbed her shirt from the floor, quickly tying the laces and gesturing for Cleon to do the same as the watchmen called the hour.

The progress at this point at this point had developed almost all of the comforts of Palace life, including bells to call the hour and large mess tents for all the usual dining rooms. Kel decided she would have to break the silence between them.

"Will you come to dinner with me?"

The question was so sweet and sincere coming from Kel, Cleon would have loved to accept the invitation (mainly to spend time with Kel but also from an urge to show her off and gloat) but Neal's threat of a 'chat' hung over him. He just hoped it wasn't _that_ chat, they'd already had that and it hadn't really gotten across well, suffice to say if Cleon ever hurt Kel he would never want to live again (he thought it a pretty pointless threat at the time, what Sir Raoul's lance, Sir Alanna's sword, the entire third company of the King's Own, all of his friend's combined talents and Kel herself, he certainly wouldn't have the opportunity to live much longer).

"If only you had spoken me sooner, Pearl of my Heart, only I have already accepted an invitation from Sir Nealan, the wiley rogue, and I fear we're set to have a private dinner." Cleon overdramatised.

"You accept a dinner proposal from one squire and spend the afternoon with another? Why, I never took you for such a scoundrel!" Kel joined in with the game as she bid him goodnight with one sweet kiss, Cleon already forgetting their earlier awkwardness.

Between Brothers

Neal sat in the grass by the river, trying to decide how he was going to deal with Cleon. He had considered bellowing at him, spittle flying as he made the boy cower. That one was attractive, because Neal was mad enough to scream and shout and exhaust his wide vocabulary of curse words, most learnt at dodgy pubs with academics under the guise of 'broadening the mind' and some choice learnt from Sir Alanna. How could Cleon be courting Kel and not respect her as a worrier? It was something he had been fighting for since he became Kel's sponser and he could not believe somebody so close to him had escaped his notice for so long. But really Cleon was too big to yell at, to demonstrate his physical power over in such a Neanderthaloid manner.

He had considered doing the quiet, scary thing that powerful men always seem to pull off so well. He spent time fantasising over all the things he could threaten the boy with (physically, socially and magically) and thought up some really choice ways to phrase them. But in the end, Cleon was a friend – a good friend he could trust when Kel's being a girl made sharing some secrets too uncomfortable and he had been there to explain certain things to Cleon that his mother had left out – a friend Neal desperately wanted to keep.

And Cleon was late. (Though what was making Cleon late made Neal shudder just a little). Neal had uprooted most of the grass by the time Cleon arrived, pulling it out blade by blade and in great clumps, but Cleon walked straight past him to stand at the edge of the water and skip rocks. Perhaps it was arrogance to assume Neal would follow, but the boys knew each other well and there was comfort in the assumption.

"So, you wanted to talk about jousting?" In the end it was Cleon who started, running a perfectly smooth speckled rock across his palm and testing its weight before tossing it with that perfect flick of the wrist that sent it bouncing once, twice, four times.

"I suppose we could start there. You could explain why you were flinching." Neal was yet to throw a stone, but he picked up rocks, pretending to be interested in the game they were playing. Keeping it light. Keeping it friendly. Best not to lose his cool.

"I don't like watching her get hurt. I don't like thinking of her hurt. I don't like pretending I can't see her limping about after her 'flying lessons' with Lord Raoul." Cleon shrugged. It was the honest truth and it softened Neal.

"She's a warrior. If you don't like these games we play during our squire-dom, how will you cope when she is assigned a post in war. She's good, even the Stump acknowledged that, but she's human. She won't come out of every battle unscathed. You seem to have learnt that lesson a little too well, we all face dangers here. You have to accept her as a soldier. That's what we've been trying to get the conservatives to understand for so long."

"Don't give me that 'you can't treat her like a girl' rubbish Owen used to preach!" Neither man could bring himself to say Kel's name, but tempers were rising, "She's a Woman, and she didn't spend all of her page years wearing a dress to dinner just so we could ignore that."

"I know she's a girl. I notice her wearing dresses, being subtly jealous of the Queen's ladies at balls. That doesn't make her weak!"

"Yes it does Neal! You can believe it all comes naturally if you want to avoid the extra training, but it takes hard work for her to be all she is. And I was raised as a conservative, so were you for the most part. Tell me you don't want to step in when she gets into fights. Would you deny it? You've already done it. Fought for her honour just like any other court lady!" Cleon had given up skipping stones now and was pegging them at the water. Neal kept his head, taking them from Cleon before he started aiming them at him.

"Calm down. Stay on task. We're not talking about honour, you can challenge people on that in your own time. I know it takes work for Kel to be as strong as she is, but she does the work. And I'm glad you see her as a woman, I don't give you a hard time about courting her, do I?" Neal noticed Cleon was calming, "By the way, I've noticed she's wearing a charm… but we'll talk about that another time." Cleon's face coloured just a little, he had noticed the charm and had spent enough time with Neal to hazard a fair guess at its purpose.

"Will you still think of her as womanly when she is sitting in war rooms rather than sewing circles, when you come home to a wife with bruises, broken bones and scars?" Neal knew the future was a forbidden topic for the pair, but this was important.

Cleon almost laughed at him, "You've been riding with the Lioness and still you think I'll be the one coming back to Kel?" Neal smiled, Cleon had thought more about this than he hoped. But then the mood sombred, "The rest, I've already seen. I probably would have been late to our little rendezvous if I hadn't been … distracted by the bruises. Sometimes they're awful Neal"

"You were late! But Gods I don't want to know why." Neal paused before giving his last piece of advice. "You're the pretty lady, in a way, here. Its normal to worry about her, to want to see her safe in your arms. You now know what every Knight's lady-wife feels, so you are left to cope in the same way they must: pray she stays safe, cheer her victories and cherish what time you have."

Neal flicked the stone he held across the water and Cleon watched as it bounced to the opposite shore, skipping across the water.

"Just don't hold her back Cleon. It would ruin her, you have to let her learn to fly, even if she often hits the floor."

Cleon stayed by the river. He had nowhere to go, and something in him wanted to best Neal's throw. The advice was good, just difficult to follow.


	3. An End

An End

"_He has honour if he holds himself to an ideal of conduct though it is inconvenient, unprofitable, or dangerous to do so." – Walter Lippman_

The air is cold and snaps at my face in the dark night. My hands, shoved deep in my dirty pockets where they find old crumbs, two coppers and a betting stub. The cold has numbed their ambition, made them content with heat as they are pressed against my own thighs rather than seeking out warmth in Kel's cheek. They have somehow forgotten that minutes ago they held a beautiful woman and dreamt again, forgotten their indignation as my lips refused her kiss, forgotten the roving lust that filled them when I last saw that woman.

The cold keeps me for a while, a few moments of indulgent self-pity, before I push myself through the door of the in. Ashamed to be entering alone now and imagining every set of eyes upon me, judging my every reason for leaving her and finding reason incomplete. My shoulders round and my eyes find the floor, foolishly trying to hide my bulk. Kel is gone, and I am selfishly glad. I cannot sit with her anymore, our thighs just touching, rubbing together and hinting at more. Cannot talk casually laugh amongst friends. I have said my goodbye.

At the table, my beer has gone warm but I drink it anyway. I am looking forward to a night of oblivion. I order another, and the barmaid brings it to the table. Around me, my friends have stopped talking. They watch me, almost expectantly, filling in the gaps of what they know and what is written across my face. I look back at them in silent confession.

These are not the same boys I ate with in the Page's dining hall. The sensitivity has been burnt out of Faleron's eyes, replaced with a deeper compassion. Patchy stubble grows badly shaven on Merric's cheek. Roald's soft words have grown into diplomacy with the muscles in his arms. Neal's sharp tongue has learnt restraint. We have grown into men together and we have all seen the kraken and had our fears hammered into us by the Chamber.

It has been quiet too long, so Faleron starts the conversation.

"How's the border been?"

It's a good question. Unemotional, but vitally interesting to the whole group of young nights headed to their first posts. We talk, and I relax, catching up on what I've missed at court and reassuring my friends about their postings. There are no thoughts of Kel when discussing mountain warfare, crouched muscles cramping in the ice as we await the enemy. She is not in the twang of a bow or the sickening sluice as a dagger hacks at the major arteries of a Scanran. And we do not talk of the waiting times, writing letters, the plodding preparation or the cold winter nights alone.

Neal is still with me at the end of the night, as alone as we can be in the common room of a crowded inn. I'm staring into the bottom of a flagon. Somehow I missed oblivion and I can still feel it all a little too acutely.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" The words are impatient, but I know he'll still be sitting beside me if I say 'No'. So I tell him.

"We lost everything in the floods Neal, the banks won't advance Mother any more money and she's run out of options. So I'm doing what any nobleman would do: I'm marrying an heiress and feeding my people." They say talking helps, but telling Neal is just making it all too real.

"There are other options you know, nobody would blame you for taking her home. We've been expecting it. I know Kel doesn't have much of a dowry, but she has friends, and so do you. We'd all be willing to lend you the money."

"Your not running your estate yet Neal. Lending money doesn't work like that, even amongst friends. You have to think about your own people above your friends: it's going to be a hard winter and the county's fighting a war it might lose. This wedding will meld the two fiefs, I can move my people and the remaining livestock to higher ground, I can use the money to pay debts and I can salvage this situation."

I can feel Neal stare at me as I gaze into the flickering fire, I can tell he's shocked at how much thought I've put into this. But then Neal's never had to run his own fief, never had to go past glancing over the list of transactions and deals his father has made to keep Queenscove a prosperous fief. Never had to write grovelling letters banks and money-lenders, borrowing money from one to pay another.

"What's she like?" It's not the question I expected. This is not the conversation I expect from Neal. I've grown used to looking for his advice with women (well, it's always Kel, but we never mention her name when we have those conversations). It cuts me that he really can't help me here. Can't offer me some direction.

"She's not Kel."

Neal nods, understanding, "She has always been the axe over your relationship, you've always known it could come down to this. But it hurts."

"I hoped though. I dreams of winning gold purses to solve our finances, and winning over Mother and marrying Kel. I had dreams of raising children, she'd be such a good mother, of growing old with Kel. That's what's cutting me now."

"I should hope you did, because I know the other dreams you've had have involved lots of hot flesh!" He's laughing as he says it and I marvel at how much a proper relationship has matured him.

"She's a nice girl. Pretty. Well bred. Softly spoken. Everything a knight could want in a convent girl."

"… And not what you were hoping for."

"I just can't stop thinking about Kel! What if I never stop? What if I still think of her as a say my marriage vows, as I lie with my wife, as I hold my children? Does it make my whole life a lie?" I'm getting angry now, and I know if I keep talking about Kel like this the conversation with Neal will take its usual track of decidedly less friendly. Kel has been banished from the realm of my imagination, though pictures of her still rove freely through my subconscious, begging me to follow.

"You're already stopping yourself." Neal's stopped looking at me and I can't tell if he's thinking of his own betrothed or his long dead love for Kel. "You're too honourable to do that to your wife and your children, and to Kel. You can miss her now, her presence and her touch, but I have faith you'll make those vows honestly. Have some faith in youself." So he was thinking about Kel.

I wonder now what I hadn't before. Not about his relationship with Kel, jealously telling myself she did not return his feelings, or what drew him to a woman so different from his usual taste. I wonder about his recovery. I wonder how he fell into bed with new loves and still allowed himself the space to breath.

I lean over, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a scrap of old velum I knew I would find. It's an invasion of personal space that can only be made smoothly amongst brothers and childhood friends and Neal doesn't flinch. It has part of a packing list written on one side, the edge is tattered and wrinkles run along the creased edges. My dagger is pulled from my boot with ease, now a practiced motion, and I am able to slice a shallow cut across my palm before Neal stops me.

"Don't take that way out Cleon." Neal's voice is hovering somewhere between desperate and resigned, "Don't lock yourself in that cage. It's a beautiful cage you'll never want to leave, and it is the destruction of all free will. Give yourself more credit than that. You're worth more than that."

I sigh, knowing he's right. Doubting it would even work. How can it when I am bound to picture a woman in white when I mention 'upholding honour' and a white dress tarnished when I intone 'purity'.

I look up to find Neal has left, gone to his comforting bed and his soft dreams. He left me his knife, the same knife that has drawn ceremonial blood twice before, and a fresh sheet of velum. Teasing my will like the charm rested below the collar of Kel's shirt, nestled between smooth, soft flesh. Opportunity. History has shown me I am not good at turning away, and though I have always stopped myself in time, I left the velum on the table and pocketed the knife.

I left before dawn, trained to ignore to physical and emotional exhaustion as I wished my friends luck travelling north. They will miss my wedding, arranged with improper haste for a respectable girl like my betrothed, and I'm glad they won't see me lie.

They won't see me slide a ring onto long, delicate fingers. Look into the Priest's eyes as I mutter my vows, a promise to Mithros and not my betrothed. Kiss silky, painted lips thinking only to appease my mother. The boys I learnt to dance with will not see me perform, holding my new bride as close as I ever held Yancin or Roald. That same antagonist of passion following us to the marriage bed.

Keladry will not see that.


End file.
